Not Alone
by QueenSeer161
Summary: Takes place after Joe's group attacks Rick & Co. in 4x16. Carl is traumatized by what very nearly happened to him and tries unsuccessfully to suppress the memory. He doesn't think anyone would understand what he's going through until he learns he isn't the only one in his group who suffered similar trauma. Warning: implied sexual abuse of a minor. Canon-compliant.


Carl lay for a long time with his eyes open, head on Michonne's lap. She had to notice – had to know he was awake, but she had always been good like that. She didn't speak to him. She didn't say a word, just cradled him with one arm and smoothed his hair slowly and lightly with the other. Like his mother used to do when he was young and very sick. Outside the car, Daryl and Rick had fallen into a companionable silence. The conversation, though, had been a heavy one.

Carl heard it – every word of it. He didn't blame his father for what he'd done. Rick had torn the throat from a man with his bare teeth – had stabbed to death another. Perhaps he should have been scared of it, but he wasn't. Far from it in fact. Because as he'd watched his father stab and stab and stab, and listened to the blade tear and rip into flesh, all he could think was " _Good. More._ _Harder_."

He would have done it himself. He would have done, if he'd been strong enough. The man's weight, though, had been too much. He'd been overpowered. He'd been completely helpless. He knew what the man would do, knew what was going to happen, and he couldn't find the strength to push him off and stop it. The worst part – the part that made him feel violated – was the powerlessness the pig had forced on him. He hadn't needed to do any more. The threat, the loss of control, and knowing, without a doubt, that this would happen because he couldn't do a damn thing himself to stop it… that was the worst.

His face burned, but the sound of the belt – the sound of clinking metal that signaled the start of something impending and horrific – that had taken his mind right off of the pain. The _fear_. Never in his life had he felt such powerful fear and panic. When he was free, the moment he'd felt the man's hold on his slip, he'd run to Michonne because she was everything that fat man wasn't. She was _safe_. And she – more than anyone else – gave him power.

That was why he'd let her hold him, and why he'd held her just as tight. It was why, without a word, he'd let her help him, stumbling, into the car – why he'd let her get in on the other side – why, when she'd silently offered an arm, he'd scooted to the center of the bench, buried his face in the crook of her arm and started to cry until he was so exhausted he fell asleep in her lap.

It was a while after he'd woken up, a while after his father and Daryl had talked and fallen silent, when he heard them shuffle outside the car. The men were standing up, having no doubt come to some silent agreement. There was a small, tentative rap on the window, and both he and Michonne began to move, to disentangle themselves.

It was time to go.

Carl was silent, and didn't meet Michonne's eyes as he straightened up and exited the vehicle. He didn't say a word as he slowly, methodically picked at the clothes and towels that covered the windows of he car. Then, finally retrieving his hat from the hood of the car, he put it on and pulled it down low on his forehead.

He didn't want to talk or look at anyone. The embarrassment of what had almost happened, he guilt he felt at knowing he was far from the man his father wished he was, it was enough to make him want to turn completely in on himself, and so he buried it all, pushed it away, and eyes on the ground began to walk.

The trek was mostly silent. He hung back behind his dad and Michonne. It wasn't that he was avoiding them exactly. But something in him didn't want to be close to them either. Daryl hung back as well, and somehow, no matter how slowly Carl walked, the hunter managed to stay behind him, "Bringing up the rear," as he he'd called it.

After an hour of walking, and only encountering one straggling walker on the way, which Daryl quickly dispatched, the tension in Carl's shoulder's lessened a bit. He did his best to focus on the crunch of his footsteps, and he feel of his knife handle on his belt. He tried to think about Terminus and he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the trees.

On his other side, Daryl cleared his throat quietly. Carl's head snapped around and he sidestepped to put some distance between himself and the hunter, who was looking straight ahead. Somehow, Daryl had closed the gap between them without Carl even noticing his footsteps getting closer.

Carl eyed him for a moment, then mentally shook himself. This was _Daryl_. He'd known Daryl since this whole damn outbreak started. Daryl wasn't a threat. But for some reason, Carl's instinct was to get distance from the redneck.

Then, Daryl turned his own head, met Carl's eyes, and for a split second, they read each other's thoughts. Carl saw pain and Daryl – well Daryl, he saw wariness and fear. Both men looked away and straight ahead.

Carl expected Daryl to break away from him then, but instead, Daryl did something he rarely ever did. He spoke.

"M'sorry," he murmured so quietly Carl almost couldn't hear the words.

The teen looked up at Daryl, who after a moment, met his gaze once more, this time slowly, and this time he held it.

Carl didn't have to ask the question on his mind.

"M'sorry for what that asshole did. I wancha ta know, I never woulda been with'em if I knew – 'f I knew what they was capable of." Daryl exhaled a breath and turned his sights to the treeline. He wasn't expecting a response – and wasn't expecting forgiveness.

Carl's eyes narrowed as he studied Daryl. He didn't believe that Daryl didn't know. He must have known. Daryl knew a lot of things like that. But Carl also knew that Daryl had bought them time. Daryl distracted the men and killed a few of them too. He'd stood up for them, and things would not have gone well if Daryl hadn't been there to do it.

After a long moment, Carl responded quietly, "I'm glad you were with'em. You saved us. Saved my dad." Daryl looked down at Carl again, his mouth hanging slightly open, as if he wasn't sure he was hearing the boy right. Carl held his gaze a second, then looked away, down at the ground.

"Anyway," Carl added, "he didn't _do_ nothin' t'me." It was a dismissal of the apology. The man – the _asshole_ – had not managed to even finished opening his fly before the tables turned. Carl expected the conversation to end there.

Instead, Daryl countered, tone a bit louder and clearer. "Yeah, he did." There was no question in his tone, but no violence either. It was a cold hard fact. Carl looked at him again, confused.

Daryl slowed to a stop. Carl stopped, too, and turned around. Daryl sighed. "Look, I get it, all right. I _know_. Y'don't gotta pretend."

Carl heaved a breath, his eyes going cold and angry. "Y'don't know shit." Something in Daryl's face tightened, like he was going to argue back, but instead he just nodded once, turned away from Carl and started walking again.

Carl watched him then started walking, too. Up ahead his dad and Michonne had stopped and turned around, but once Carl started walking again, Michonne said something to Rick and the pair of them had started up again.

The group walked the rest of the way in silence. Carl still hung back, but after a few moments, his anger was gone, replaced instead with a shame. Daryl had never done anything but protect him, and he didn't deserve what Carl had said.

Still, Carl couldn't bring himself to apologize – not yet. And when the group arrived at the sign, the boy pushed guilt away in favor of hope. They were almost there – almost at Terminus – and he could apologize to Daryl when they were finally safe. For now, they were walking into the woods, and focus had to be on spotting and killing any Walkers they might find.

Despite his good intentions, it was a long time before the subject of what happened at the car before Terminus came up for Carl again. Carl had nearly forgotten in fact. _Nearly_.

It was on the way to D.C., when things were calm and they hadn't seen a walker in days, that the memory came back to Carl. And it came back with a vengeance.

The walker came out of nowhere while the boy was taking a leak. It's throat was ripped out. It had no way to moan or growl or gurgle and Carl didn't realize it was there until he felt the undead hand on his shoulder. He turned to look over his left shoulder and, horrified, tried to retreat, but the walker had a grip on his other arm, and Carl tripped as he reached for his knife. The walker fell with him, its heavy weight on top of him. The stench of death and rotting flesh consumed him, but his panic, his fear, slowed down both time and sensations and for minutes, he was back, his face on the ground, his arms in a fat man's grip, the weight of the slimy bastard pressing on his legs. He could hear himself cry out, hear the shouts and general mayhem erupting around him, but louder even than that, the sound of a belt buckle clanking.

Carl was shaking and hyperventilating when Daryl reached his side. "Carl!" he called, even as he picked up the thing by its shirt and tossed the lifeless walker off his brother's son. " _Carl_. Kid, can you hear me?" he whispered, trying not to call the attention of any walkers. He crouched down by the boy and checked his neck and beneath his shirt. No bites He tried turning him over. The sheer terror in glassy unfocused as struck fear in Daryl's gut.

"Shit," he practically spat. But Daryl knew he had to get Carl to snap out of it. They weren't safe and the boy was too big to carry now. "Carl. Hey, listen to me. You're safe now. S'over." Tentatively, Daryl touched a filthy hand to Carl's dirt-streaked cheek, and something conscious seemed to slide into place.

Carl swallowed, he focused on Daryl, noted the blatant fear and worry on the man's face, and without even knowing why or how, Carl launched himself at Daryl. It was over. Daryl had saved him. It was over. For the first time since that day in the car, Carl felt so overwhelmed, he started to cry. He shut his eyes as tightly as he could but tears escaped them anyway, and though he tried to fight the lump in his throat it still rose and forced him to choke and gasp and sniffle. Like a freaking _girl_. He tried his best to stop it, and at the very least, to hide it, and Daryl didn't seem to notice. Tentatively, the man wrapped his arms around the kid, even patted him awkwardly.

When he finally had himself under control, Carl pulled away, and face tucked towards the ground, tried his best to inconspicuously wipe the tears stains from his face. Beside him, Daryl stood, saying nothing. Carl heard the sick squelch of an arrow being freed from a walker's skull as he retrieved his hat from where it had fallen. He placed it back on his head and tugged it low on his forehead.

He risked a glance over at Daryl, who was standing by, shouldering his crossbow. Daryl was looking at him. for a second they exchanged silent glances – Carl's full of apologies, and Daryl's, something unreadable. The man's jaw tightened, and he breathed a sigh. "Y'ready?" he asked, his gruff voice gentle.

For a second, Carl said nothing. "We can wait if ya need…"

"I'm fine," Carl interrupted. "I'm fine."

Daryl was silent, studying the boy, but then, he nodded.

He didn't bring it up to the group. Carl worried he might say something to Rick at least, but Daryl just said they ran into a walker and took him out, nothing more. No one questioned it.

There was something about it that made Carl feel even more guilty. He's lost it – lost himself. He didn't know what was happening or why, but he had put both himself and Daryl in danger. What if Daryl hadn't been there? Or what if more walkers had found them?

But Daryl didn't say anything more about it. Carl had started to believe that maybe Daryl hadn't noticed – maybe he just thought that Carl was scared of the walker, that he'd thrown himself at Daryl because he was grateful to him for saving his life. The possibility was a little embarrassing, to be honest, but not as embarrassing as the truth.

That night, Carl sat by one of the small fires the group had made, Michonne by his side. Rick and Sasha were on watch, Daryl was walking the perimeter, and everyone else was paired off or hanging by themselves. Michonne stood up and walked off to take Daryl's place on perimeter watch, and the man returned a few minutes later, finally sitting down to eat some dinner. Across from Daryl and Carl, Maggie and Glenn were speaking in hushed tones. Then, after a moment of just staring into each other's eyes, they kissed. Carl, who hadn't realized he'd been staring, looked away, a little embarrassed.

It was a few minutes before the pair of them stood up and announced to Daryl they were going to take a walk. Maggie flashed Carl an almost apologetic smile. Daryl just grunted. Carl sighed, then leaned forward with a stick to poke at and stir the embers. Everyone had a job, and his was to keep the fire going tonight.

He didn't notice Daryl had stopped eating until he straightened up and sat back, only to see the older man staring at him. Carl met his gaze for a moment, then looked away. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks.

Carl heard the body near him sifting, and looked up again when Daryl sat even closer to him. This time, Daryl was looking ahead of him, focusing on something else, or maybe nothing at all.

"Listen, man, about earlier. You ain't got nothin' ta be ashamed of."

Carl's cheeks blazed, and though he managed to suppress the groan that tried to escape his throat, he did reach up and tug his hat just a little further down on his brow to try and hide his embarrassment.

"Those things, they happen to the best of us."

"No, they don't," Carl responded quietly. "You don't understand."

Daryl looked at him, but said nothing.

"It wasn't the walker, ok? It was…"

But Carl didn't finish, letting out a huff and shaking his head. Walkers everyone could understand. Everyone had to deal with walkers. He wasn't _alone_ in fearing the walkers. But what had happened to him, what that man had almost _done_ … It wasn't something others would understand. It was different, and what made it worse, was he was the only one who _knew_ that special brand of helplessness and gut-wrenching fear. On this, he was alone.

"It doesn't matter," Carl finally said. Daryl could read the defeat, anger, humiliation that soaked the teenager's tone.

"Yeah," Daryl countered gently, "it does. You got nothin' t'be ashamed of."

When Carl didn't yell at him, Daryl pressed on.

"I didn't tell Rick what happened. I – I don't think he'd get it. But I get it, man. I get it. I…. I've been there."

The last three words were so quiet, Carl almost didn't hear him, but he looked up and over at Daryl, sitting no more than two feet away from him. The hunter was back to tearing strips of meat from the snake they'd caught to eat them. Carl tipped his hat back so he could study the older man's face as he ate.

"Really?"

For a second, Daryl paused, but without looking at Carl, he finished his meager meal. When he was done, Daryl wiped his hands on his jeans and his mouth on the back of his hand. Then, he looked at Carl, who was still watching him cautiously, almost disbelieving, and clearly waiting for some explanation.

Daryl sighed and closed his eyes, then turned them on the fire. He leaned forward, picked up the stick that Carl had used to tend it, and poked at the orange embers, causing the low fire to flare and crackle. "I was twelve," he said, when he finally spoke. "My daddy was a no good drunk. And every once in a while, he brought one of his drinkin' buddies over for a beer and to watch a game. That night, he passed out."

Daryl sat back and scratched his moustache, his narrowed eyes still focused on the fire. Carl watched him, stunned. His heart beating faster and faster. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what happened next.

Daryl continued anyway, his voice gruff and hushed, "I was in my room when his friend came stumblin' in. Lookin' fer the bathroom, he said." Daryl's face hardened, his eyes narrowing as he glared steadily into the fire. "Merle came home a while later. Heard me screamin'." Daryl's lip twisted. "He dragged that shitbag outside. Beat 'im to a bloody pulp."

Finally, he looked at Carl. There was something familiar in his eyes – a pain Carl had seen before.

"What happened to you," Daryl said, his tone taking on a gentler timbre, "it weren't yer fault. But ya gotta accept it, be proud you survived it, and move on, little man. Ignorin' it'll just make it worse."

Carl watched him, stunned by the revelation – and stunned at the advice. He swallowed thickly, realizing for the first time in a while that his throat was parched and dry, and then, he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Daryl seemed to see it, though, because he reached a hand for Carl's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. It was a small gesture, one that lasted only a moment before Daryl pulled his hand away, but it was enough. He wasn't alone.


End file.
